Caught
by LCFC
Summary: The FBI finally catch Sam and Dean. Is there are way out?


_This is for Impala Dreamer – a sort of flip side of my story – 'When We Go Down'. You don't have to read that one to read this one and you don't have to read this one!!!_

_I hope you like this Impala – it isn't quite what you asked for but it should be close enough!_

_I don't own the Winchesters – damn!!_

The irons are harsh around his ankles and they chafe, even through his boots. He can't move his hands much and he puts them on the desk, keeps them still, fingers twisting around each other, cold and icy.

Hendrickson stares at him, eyes bright and keen. He leans forward, so close that Dean can smell his aftershave and the coffee on his breath.

"We're looking at the death sentence here," he hisses and Dean glares back up at him, a smirk forming on his lips.

Death sentence – yeah right.

Sam is in a holding cell and it is too small, too cramped and he feels like he is loosing his mind. He has to keep his head bowed and his feet tucked under the hard, unyielding bench. If he stretches out his arms he can touch cold brick and the only light in the room is from a bare bulb on the ceiling.

He knows that they are doing this to break him, knows that they want him to crack and say something to incriminate his brother. He bites his lip and shuts his eyes.

This is the longest he has been separated from Dean since he was held prisoner by the demon in Cold Oak. He hated it then and he hates it more now. His longing to leave, his longing to be away from his family was long gone and he needed to have his brother near him at all times.

The longer this goes on, the less time he has to research, the less time he has to get Dean out of his deal.

The trouble is, he just doesn't know how they are going to get out of this and, although he wouldn't admit it, even to himself, he is afraid.

Dean stares down the FBI agent and his 'buddy'. The 'good cop', 'bad cop' routine is wearing thin and he is tired, wrung out and hungry. The clock is ticking and, if these goons keep him talking for another few months, they are gonna be cleaning up his dog chewed guts.

"The girl in St Louis, Dean, "Hendrickson grinds out, hard and threatening, "Death seems to follow you around."

"I told you," Dean Smiles, all smooth and charming, feeling the prick of a four week old beard on his chin, "that was a shape shifter, same as the bank in Milwaukee," he jangles his handcuffs and stares Hendrickson down, "when I can I see my brother? When can I see Sam?"

"When you confess," the agent's eyes glint and Dean sees something there that disturbs him.

Sam has been moved to a bigger cell in the local prison. He shares accommodation with a convicted murderer and it makes him more than a little uneasy. His cell mate is silent, eyes watching Sam as he moves around the tiny room, head bowed a little so that he doesn't crack his head on the light.

Sam's back aches and his feet are constantly cold from hanging off the bed. He remembers the last time he was in prison, he hated it then but at least he had his brother around and they were out in a few days. He checks at the marks he has made on the wall and feels like something out of a Dumas novel.

He has been there for two months and Dean only has two months left.

He bites down a sob, extracting a look of distain from his silent room mate.

He wants his brother so badly it hurts.

They are going to take him to court. A formality Hendrickson says and Dean nods eyes still defiant. He doesn't care about himself, only his brother. He signs the papers, his signature shaky and unrecognisable. He hates this, hates knowing that he saved those people, he didn't kill them, he saved them.

Now, once again, he is saving Sammy.

They face each other across a wide desk, officers on either side of them. Sam is shackled, his hair so long now that it touches his shoulders. Dean finds it hard, even under these circumstances, not to hold back a grin as he notices the stubble covering Sam's lower jaw barely even making a beard.

"Nice look Samantha," he goes for snarky and Sam's mouth curves upwards.

"Yeah – well – at least I don't look like a mountain man."

They can't touch, not that they would even if they could. Winchesters don't show emotion, don't hug, don't cry. Dean swallows the lie down and shifts, his leg aching.

"You ok?" he says, his fingers clutching at the edge of the table, "you look like shit."

"Right back at you," Sam coughs a little and rubs his cuffed hands across his cheek, "they – they told me you confessed, Dean."

"Only way to get to see you bro," Dean tries for shit eating but only manages pathetic and his mouth won't form the grin he wants on his face right now, "you got a good deal, Sam, they are gonna let you out in a few months – good behaviour – Deacon had a lot to do with it."

"And you?"

"Gonna die anyway," Dean nods, "so it doesn't matter."

Sam shifts. He gazes at Hendrickson, standing behind Dean, trying to read his expression. The agent gives away nothing and Sam smiles, soft and innocent, eyes wide and bright.

Above them, the lights begin to flicker and the walls begin to shake. One of the female officer screams as a piece of masionary falls in front of her and a glass shatters.

Dean feels his cuffs unlock as if invisible hands were holding the keys and he stares up at his brother, not knowing whether to feel fear or pride.

"I know you don't believe in the supernatural," Sam says, his eyes on Hendrickson's, his head cocked to one side, "but maybe now you might."

He turns to Dean, who is watching, opened mouthed, as smoke fills the air and officers run about in panic, phones ringing, computers beeping and Hendrickson screaming along with the others.

"I told you I would save you and I will," Sam grinds out and he smiles, lifting his hands upwards so that Dean can see them.

His own cuffs fall to the floor and he grabs his brother's hand and pulls hard, leading him through the chaos, through the breaking glass and the falling ceiling, out into the courtyard and up over the wall to where Bobby is waiting for them in the Impala.

End.


End file.
